Circe.—­May not a wise and good man, who has spent all his youth in active life and honourable danger, when he begins to decline, be permitted to retire and enjoy the rest of his days in quiet and pleasure?

Ulysses.—­No retreat can be honourable to a wise and good man but in company with the muses.  Here I am deprived of that sacred society.  The muses will not inhabit the abodes of voluptuousness and sensual pleasure.  How can I study or think while such a number of beasts—­and the worst beasts are men turned into beasts—­are howling or roaring or grunting all about me?

Circe.—­There may be something in this, but this I know is not all.  You suppress the strongest reason that draws you to Ithaca.  There is another image besides that of your former self, which appears to you in this island, which follows you in your walks, which more particularly interposes itself between you and me, and chides you from my arms.  It is Penelope, Ulysses, I know it is.  Don’t pretend to deny it.  You sigh for Penelope in my bosom itself.  And yet she is not an immortal.  She is not, as I am, endowed by Nature with the gift of unfading youth.  Several years have passed since hers has been faded.  I might say, without vanity, that in her best days she was never so handsome as I. But what is she now?

Ulysses.—­You have told me yourself, in a former conversation, when I inquired of you about her, that she is faithful to my bed, and as fond of me now, after twenty years’ absence, as at the time when I left her to go to Troy.  I left her in the bloom of youth and beauty.  How much must her constancy have been tried since that time!  How meritorious is her fidelity!  Shall I reward her with falsehood?  Shall I forget my Penelope, who can’t forget me, who has no pleasure so dear to her as my remembrance?

Circe.—­Her love is preserved by the continual hope of your speedy return.  Take that hope from her.  Let your companions return, and let her know that you have fixed your abode with me, that you have fixed it for ever.  Let her know that she is free to dispose as she pleases of her heart and her hand.  Send my picture to her, bid her compare it with her own face.  If all this does not cure her of the remains of her passion, if you don’t hear of her marrying Eurymachus in a twelvemonth, I understand nothing of womankind.

Ulysses.—­O cruel goddess! why will you force me to tell you truths I desire to conceal?  If by such unmerited, such barbarous usage I could lose her heart it would break mine.  How should I be able to endure the torment of thinking that I had wronged such a wife?  What could make me amends for her being no longer mine, for her being another’s?  Don’t frown, Circe, I must own—­since you will have me speak—­I must own you could not.  With all your pride of immortal beauty, with all your magical charms to assist those of Nature, you are not so powerful a charmer